The Monkeys of Mashobra

One of the most entertaining experiences from my trip to Mashobra involved the monkeys. Or as I came to think of them: the Flying Wallendas Monkey Troupe. Although the balcony of our house was high up (about third level), the nearby trees were even taller. The monkeys would jump horizontally from those trees to the balcony railing, then scramble up the drainpipe to the roof and launch themselves back down into the trees. Jump, climb, fly, repeat—all afternoon, sometimes solo, often chasing one another.

The monkeys were obviously a family, and their squabbles reminded me of the squirrels back in Providence—round and round the oak tree, up and down the trunk. Sometimes the monkeys broke the monotony by running down the drainpipe and across the patio and the yard. They spent most of their time in the trees, though. The fruit provided easy and plentiful food. When they landed on the balcony railing, it rattled violently, sounding like King Kong’s dental bridge if it came loose.

That rattling wasn’t the only noise that I eventually attributed to the simians. The first night in Mashobra, as I was falling asleep, I was startled by the sound of thunder nearby. I quickly realized it was coming from the roof, made of that pervasive tin I wrote about earlier. I was sure the monkeys were having a bowling tournament up there. Then I realized they were doing their “jump, climb, fly, repeat” routine. It just sounded different from inside the bedroom than it did from the balcony.

One monkey in particular had the most expressive face. Wistful, almost sad. One evening, as he was sitting peacefully on the railing in one corner of the balcony, I watched him from inside the house for awhile. Then I got my sister-in-law’s iPhone to take a picture of him from the window. He turned away at first. Then he jumped down and scurried across the balcony, then up and away.

Perhaps some ancient wisdom informed him that when you are photographed, a portion of your soul is captured and lost to you. Had he been photographed before, I wondered, and lost so much of his soul that he had become sad, and wiser? I speak no monkey and very little Hindi, so I’ll never know. I was certain that we had made some special connection, though, and the morning that I left, I was convinced I had been right.

The car was loaded to the max with our belongings and some household items that were being transported from Mashobra back to Delhi. My sister-in-law was attending to some last minute instructions to the hill house staff. Rather than sit waiting in the packed car, I stood at the edge of the front garden. I noticed my wise monkey friend, observing me from the steps of the house next door. He must have sensed I was leaving. He disappeared, apparently having gone around the back of our house.

Suddenly I saw him again, walking slowly along the wall on the opposite side of our patio, not far from a large tree. He stopped and we exchanged knowing glances. This would be our final interaction. He took a few more steps toward me and paused. Softly, I said: “Goodbye my monkey friend. I’ll miss you. Perhaps some day I’ll come back.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to come even closer, and I wasn’t sure what I would do. He was wild, after all, and I would be foolish to try to touch him. Still, rejecting his overture would be too insensitive. Just then, my sister-in-law came out to the car and my monkey friend ran off. Another romantic interlude (in the classic sense of the word ‘romantic’) scuttled before it was culminated.

It’s probably just as well, because I have a feeling that, like the Flamingos (and the lovers they sang about), monkeys “never say goodbye.”

Botanicals of Himachal Pradesh

One of the more memorable aspects of the visit to the family's hill house in Mashobra, Himachal Pradesh was the botanicals of that region. For this post, I’m going to define “visit” and “botanicals” a tad broadly.

En route to the Himalayas, but in a flatter and often barren area, multi-lane highways pass by dozens of buildings that reflect two Indian traditions. One is the large and elaborate wedding venues with architecture like in Bollywood movies. These often masquerade as temples on steroids. Or on ganja (more on that later). The other institution is the roadside stand, or dhaba, where travelers grab quick, but tasty, food.

One Sunday we made an hour plus trip from Delhi to have brunch at the most famous of these—the Amrik Sukhdev Dhaba. This facility is said to hold over 2,000 people and I’d bet more than 1,000 were chowing down that day. Their specialty is the paratha (a pan-fried, layered bread) generously garnished with butter. My favorite was the one stuffed with gobi (cauliflower).

On the drive to the hill house, we left Delhi without a proper breakfast, so we stopped at the smaller Zhilmil Vaishno Dhaba for an early lunch. Not surprisingly, our meal was parathas, but these were stuffed with mooli (radishes). If you read my essay on driving the Himalayan hills, you’ll know this became my new favorite paratha filling.

These roadside stops appear again as one begins the climb into the hills. One stand was precariously perched on the edge of a cliff as we neared Solan, not far from Shimla. It was aptly named Sweet Hot Point, and if they didn’t want to “lose their lunch,” wise diners would have taken in the view first, then taken in the food.

One last tidbit about eating along the route. On the trip home we grabbed some roasted corn from a roadside vendor. “Grabbed” is the operative word here. One of our entourage was standing beside the car, partially eaten ear in hand, carelessly hanging at his side. Before you could say “Grab-N-Go” lunch, a monkey had snatched it up and run off.

Speaking of animals along the route, we took a drive in the mountains above Mashobra. Here and there, families from even further north stood roadside with their yaks. The hairy creatures were decked out in colorful textiles, waiting to be photographed. One enterprising clan had brought clothing from their village so tourists could dress like a local. My sister-in-law snapped me (in my own native dress) between two of these irresistible creatures.

Along the route and near the house, there’s an amazing variety of flowering trees and wild blooms. If they were animals, they’d be feral. From an aroma perspective, my favorite are the wild lilac bushes.

A close second is Rat Ki Rani, or Queen of the Night, aka Night Blooming Jasmine. True to its name, its blossoms come out in the evening. They’re so fragrant that they retained their potency days after we were home in Delhi. At breakfast, you were sure they’d run their course. But by dinner, they were enticing us once again.

My visual favorite is a flower with ten celadon petals and five scrotum-like seed pods on pistil arms. Its purple and white center section has three aubergine antennae and countless “hairs.” The leaves look similar to those of a marijuana plant, but they’re not related.

However, marijuana also grows wild throughout this part of India. Enterprising folks sneak onto people’s property at night to harvest bhang. It also grows wild along the highway back to Delhi, so we did our harvesting in the daytime. We were stopped in traffic, and collecting some seemed like a good use of time.

A few hundred meters up the road, the police pulled over our car. “Going to the big house in India,” I thought. “Ironic, since I never smoked pot even once back home.” In my mind I prepared a plausible explanation. “We were just picking lovely botanicals as souvenirs of my trip to Himachal Pradesh. See? Wild lilacs, Rak Ni Rani.” All of these were mixed in with the bhang in the area behind our seats. As it turned out, India’s finest were checking papers to be sure our driver was a proper employee, not a gypsy cabbie.

So ended the field trip to Mashobra and my study of botanicals in the Himachal Pradesh. And no, we didn’t smoke the bhang. We put it in a large vase in the dining room, along with the wild lilacs and the Rak Ni Rani. At breakfast, I breathed deep whiffs of the lilacs. At lunch, I judiciously sniffed the wild ganja. At dinner, I inhaled the Queen of the Night. Ah, the stuff dreams are made of!

Driving in the Hills of the Himalayas

The roads of the hill country of the Himalayas look like extreme S-curves when viewed from above. But when you’re driving on them, you feel like you’ve been dropped into a giant bowl of spaghetti, with clumps that are twisted and knotted. You swear that you’ve passed that same overpass or cut-through at least twice before. And maybe you have.

On all but the sharpest of curves, experienced drivers don’t brake; they just ease off the accelerator. If you see brake lights ahead, you can be pretty sure the driver is an inexperienced wuss and that your driver will put him in the rear view soon. The good part of having a veteran at the wheel is that he knows the roads and isn’t afraid to pass. The downside is that he's fearless, perhaps even reckless by U.S. standards. Hang on to that handle over the window and expect to close your eyes more than occasionally.

There’s a technique to passing on those curves. You pull out into the opposite lane as you approach a curve, but don’t begin to pass yet. If someone comes the other way, you quickly pop back into your spot. As you round the curve and get a view up the road, if no one is coming, you accelerate out of the curve, using centrifugal force to propel you like a slingshot past the vehicle (and sometimes vehicles) in front of you.

Clustered along the mountainous slopes are hillside villages for which the phrase “explosion of color” was concocted. It’s not uncommon to see houses painted lilac with purple; red with pink; and varied hues of orange, salmon and bittersweet or citrus/lemon. Shades of teal and red are ubiquitous colors for the tin rooftops.

Considering how narrow and winding the roads are, trucks and tour buses abound. The travel coaches have company names like “Lovely,” “Royal” and “Delightful.” Commercial vehicles are brightly painted. Even the garbage trucks and small tractors, probably from family farms, are decorated. The message on the rear of all these vehicles—Blow Horn—is not just a suggestion. It’s an exhortation to be taken seriously, and most drivers do. Less common is “Use Dipper At Night.” (Not “dimmer,” mind you.)

During the eight-hour drive from Delhi to Shimla you notice the states represented on the license plates you see. You begin with a preponderance of DL for Delhi. That loses popularity to HR (Haryana) and PB (Punjab) as you proceed toward Chandigarh. That city seems to be the joint capital of both states, as well as a territory with its own plate (CH). There’s an occasional UP (Uttar Pradesh). The mountain climb is populated with HP—Himachal Pradesh, where Shimla (formerly Simla) is the capital.

           

Speaking of Chandigarh, it has an airport where those who blanche at a day-long car trip can fly in to have a shorter, three-hour bus ride up to Shimla. That drive is still not for the faint of heart;  there’s simply no escaping the spaghetti bowl.

An hour or so north of Chandigarh, diesel trains from Kalka to Shimla make the journey in about four and a half hours. Not long ago, that trip took eight hours and there was just one train per day in each direction. The train remains a rare enough sight that both locals and tourists run to see it and take photos at village crossings. It says something about the terrain that the train still takes longer than the bus.

Where the ground is relatively flat for a mile or so, small towns and villages have sprung up along the route. Here you’ll find merchants with the necessities of life, which of course means a lot of shops with local produce. We stopped to get some provisions on the way up and on the way down. The older women generally had on sensible shoes, but the young ladies wore sandals or other attractive (read: non-sturdy) footwear. It must have been treacherous walking home.

It was midday on the return trip, so the street (no sidewalks) was a bustling marketplace. We idled in front of the vendors’ stands while my sister-in-law shopped. The Daikon radishes looked superb. They weren’t in season yet back in Delhi, so we brought some home for mooli paratha (bread stuffed with the vegetable), slathered in butter, of course.

Across from the produce stalls, girls who appeared to be tourists were laughing and taking selfies, oblivious to the begging children. Some local lads checked themselves out in our side view mirror as they walked by. They tidied their hair, intent on making the best impression on the young ladies in the sexy shoes. Young people, it seems, are the same all over the world.

Expect to read more about my recent India trip in future posts.

Marriage: It’s About Love, Not Velcro

The Supreme Court has just issued its ruling on marriage equality, upholding the right of same-sex couples to marry in any state in the United States. Even as this becomes the law of the land, religious conservatives are trying to find ways to thwart same-sex marriages in their own state. This seems like a good time to reprise my essay from April 2013, when Rhode Island, where I then lived, was still debating the issue.

Conservative voices insist that marriage can only be between a man and a woman because the Church (or the Bible) says so. It seems to me that they’re confusing the sacrament of marriage with the sanctity of marriage. A religious institution has the right to reserve its sacrament for heterosexual couples, but not every marriage takes place in a church or a temple.

My husband and I were married by a judge in a non-denominational chapel at Brown University. The Hinduism and Catholicism of our youth didn’t interfere with our ability to become husband and wife in Rhode Island. The judge didn’t confer a sacrament upon us, but he officially affirmed the sanctity of our love.

It’s unlikely the conservatives who are arguing against same-sex marriage would claim that our marriage isn’t legitimate. The Catholic Church might feel that way and probably wouldn’t have ministered their sacrament to us. But overall, even the holiest rollers would agree that we are husband and wife.

Many of those who are against same-sex marriage claim that civil unions should be good enough for these couples. They decry efforts to “redefine” the term “marriage.” Actually, forcing gay couples to have unions instead of marriages will ultimately muddy the terminology far more than recognizing their right to be married will. Reserving “marriage” for the exclusive use of heterosexual couples will only serve to take the concept of love out of the relationship.

What should same-sex couples call their mates in a civil union? “Unionites”? That sounds so political, so Norma Rae. “Partners” isn’t much better; it sounds like a business arrangement. Like the very concept of a civil union—and in stark contrast to the concept of marriage, both terms fail to convey the emotion that’s the basis for the relationship.

If we acknowledge that all these relationships are based on love, then the singular fact that distinguishes a committed couple labeled one way from a couple labeled another seems to be either anatomy or perhaps religion.

But we’ve already covered the fact that a man and a woman can marry without religious involvement. So, it gets down to anatomy. Which means the conservative definition of “marriage” no longer has anything to do with love, or even anything spiritual; it’s just about body parts. It’s not logical to claim that this protects the concept.

I think conservatives who are against same-sex marriage are mistaking Velcro for love. It’s really quite easy to straighten out this misperception. Velcro is the stuff where one side needs to have hooks and the other needs loops if it’s going to work. Love has no such hooks-and-loops requirement.

Lasting love is a matter of the heart, not the anatomy. The more the heart is at the center of love and the less the hooks and loops are, the more likely the connection will survive the stresses of today’s life. And the more love is allowed to be at the center of marriage, instead of Velcro, the stronger the concept of marriage will be.

As Justice Kennedy’s words made clear in the Supreme Court ruling, it’s also about dignity. When people recognize this, #LoveWins.

Discovering the Jacuzzi Tub

We’ve been in our condo for nine months. I’m a shower person, but this week I finally tried out the Jacuzzi tub. I was motivated by the fact that it was time for the “bathing suit” shave (aka Gyn exam shave). I’m sure you women readers are nodding in understanding. Men, just use your imagination.

I’ve previously shaved in the regular tub in our guest bathroom, but that was for basic (to-the-knee) cleanups. That tub has some drawbacks. Chief among them: the lighting isn’t great and the stopper doesn’t work properly. I have a rubber disk that covers the drain and looks a bit like a diaphragm. I use it when I travel to “affordable” hotels, so it’s in my dopp kit in our first floor master bath. The guest facilities are on our second floor and I’m not about to streak downstairs when I’m naked and shave-ready.

To give you an idea of what an ordeal this seasonal ritual is, I’m sharing an experience I had when I was category manager for first aid at Colgate Palmolive around 1986. I met with the inventor of the Nautilus exercise machines about a vaguely defined business opportunity. Mr. Nautilus (Arthur Jones) had me flown from Miami to his R&D facility (and crocodile preserve) in his corporate jet. As I walked to the building, I passed a glassed-in enclosure that held a very large gorilla. A sign identified him as Mickey.

I won’t bore you with the details of the business discussion. After it was over, we were served a healthy lunch, at which at least a dozen folks were gathered at a long table, with Jones at the head, of course. I was on his left, two or three seats down. He made a non sequitur suggestion that I should mate with Mickey, because the offspring would be very strong and smart. Clearly, he wanted to embarrass and emasculate me. I should probably mention that back then, when I was around 40, I was still hot and fly.

I absorbed the insult for perhaps three seconds and laughed. Then I responded. “Oh, that would never work. I’m half Italian. The hairy jokes are bad enough without mating me with a gorilla. Our kids wouldn’t have a prayer.” Everyone at the table went into hysterics and Jones gave me a wide berth from then on. Needless to say, the business venture never came to fruition. His 2007 New York Times obit says he had 6 wives. Wikipedia cites his motto: "younger women, faster airplanes, and bigger crocodiles."

But I digress. Back to the subject at hand. I’ve discovered that the Jacuzzi has awesome benefits, even without using the jets. No, I haven’t tried those yet. Small steps (and stop smirking…) For one thing, because that tub is square, I can stretch my legs fully if I sit on the diagonal. If you can’t do that, just wait. If you’re my age, you’re probably shrinking an inch or two a year.

The lighting is so much better there, too, because that corner is not enclosed or curtained. When I put on my glasses, I can see every wayward hair. The lenses don’t fog up the way they do in our stall shower. When I do a basic shave there, it’s by feel, which usually results in random tufts left behind. Not attractive.

The Jacuzzi stopper works perfectly and the controls are conveniently within reach since I’m sitting on an angle. The only downside was that the bottom of the tub, which is wide in all directions, was like a skating rink when I finished my toilette. It took me about five minutes to figure out how to get out of it. I had to get on my knees by the faucets and grab onto the spigot so I could rise slowly into a crouch. This afforded me a close look at my newly-shaven legs, and I decided it was well worth the struggle.

I’m seriously considering buying some bath salts, bringing in a few scented candles from my husband’s store, and taking a nice, long soak once in awhile. I might even reconnect the central AV system so I can pipe in some relaxing music. You’ll notice that I haven’t mentioned figuring out how to turn on the water jets. Let me remind you: small steps.

Tidbits for Women

MESSAGE from the blogger: I’ll be taking a hiatus from my regular posting for awhile, beginning next weekend. Catch you again sometime in late June or July.

The April 13 issue of Advertising Age carried a number of interesting tidbits about women that caught my attention. I’m not sure if it was just a coincidence that they all ended up in the same issue, or if that assemblage was intentional on the part of the editors. Whatever the reason, I’m sharing them here.

The cover of Golf Digest’s Fitness & Power Issue featured a half-naked Lexi Thompson, a professional golfer. A drying towel is draped strategically around her neck. Ms. Thompson was so proud of her cover girl status that she tweeted about it, saying she was “pumped to represent fitness & power. #girlpower”

Shaunna Taylor, co-chair of the Canadian Sport Psychology Association took exception, tweeting that an “unnecessarily topless cover photo is not… empowering to the women’s game.” Though my husband and I now live on a TPC golf course, I don’t feel informed enough to weigh in on this issue. I just hope I don’t see Lexi golfing half-naked on the fairway behind us one day.

Lane Bryant, the marketer of clothes size 14 to 28, has a new ad campaign for “real women” (à la Dove soap). In the print ad, the tag line #ImNoAngel is superimposed over a group of plus size models in sexy bras and panties. There’s a TV version as well. Way to go, LB girls! The idea pokes fun at the popular Victoria’s Secret campaign that features rake thin models wearing scanty lingerie, feathered wings and smiles. Can’t wait ‘til someone does a similar ad featuring seniors with silver wings and golden halos.

Speaking of rake thin models, the government of France is considering a law that will impose fines of up to $82,000 on clothing designers who use emaciated models. Since most runway ladies would qualify as emaciated IMHO, I’m not sure how the French define that term.  Additionally, using these stick figures can result in up to six months of jail time. Finally, if the ads for those clothiers have been Photoshopped to make the babes look more Twiggy-like, this needs to be disclosed (not sure to whom). All together now: Vive la France!

On the opposite side of the world, the ad consortium Grey Group Singapore has partnered with Neelvasant Medical Foundation and Research Centre on a program that is focused on women’s health. They’re providing women in rural India with bindis that are designed to dispense iodine. Iodine deficiency is a major problem in that part of the world. The bindi is a traditional adornment for these women, making it a practical solution. The campaign is called “Life-Saving Dot.” Score one for the creative and culturally sensitive use of resources.

What strikes me most about these four media items is the scope of the information. We go from covers that reflect male chauvinistic attitudes to efforts to lift up real women to programs to improve women’s health in disadvantaged areas of the world. I suppose women should be grateful that only one of the four pieces objectified a woman and that at least one of the four addressed a serious health issue in a creative way. Baby steps, but worth celebrating nonetheless.

Here’s to women everywhere, whatever their shape or age, no matter where they call home. This seems like a good note to end on before my blogging break.

Retirees’ Triads

Pampers has a new tag line. It’s a take off on the book and the movie: Eat, Pray, Love. Procter and Gamble tweaked the diaper version to Love, Sleep, Play. To which I snorted: “For people our age, it’s more like: Eat, Pray for Sleep, Eat Something Else.” This got me thinking about other well-known triads and how they might be revised for retirees.

One that comes to mind immediately is Veni, Vidi, Vici. (I came, I saw, I conquered.) The seniors’ adaptation has to be: I came, I forgot why I came, so I left. Another from literature is Keats’ “beloved trinity”—“Give me women, wine and snuff untill I cry out ‘Hold, enough!’” With minor alterations it’s a favorite of ladies who’ve migrated to Florida. “Give me women, wine and Mah Jong ‘til I cry out ‘Enough already!’”

Some of the revised groupings are inspired by health issues that plague many older folks. The patriotic red, white and blue are phonetically modified into bread, wheat and gluten—foods to be avoided by those with sensitive digestive tracts. The western The Good, the Bad and the Ugly mutates into The Cane, the Walker, and the Wheelchair. That popular lunch sandwich—bacon, lettuce and tomato? It’s still bacon, lettuce and tomato—but now it’s things we have trouble chewing or digesting.

Then we have trios of noises, or groups that morph into them. Let’s begin with Snap, Crackle and Pop—the sounds of a beloved breakfast cereal. These days, snap, crackle and pop are still morning sounds, but they’re the ones we make when we first get up. Remember the rock band Earth, Wind and Fire? They’re now Gurgle, Windy and Fart. (Oh, don’t give me that look. You know you were thinking something similar.)

Famous threesomes from TV and movies get makeovers as we age. The Three Stooges are no longer Moe, Curly and Larry. They’re now Bald, Frizzy and Flyaway—our hairstyles. The Marx brothers, Chico, Harpo and Groucho, have become Cheeky, Harpy and Grouchy—our personalities. The Cowardly Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Woodsman morph into the Couch Hippo, Frightful Hair Crow and Titanium Knees Man.

How about the gifts the Three Wise Men brought to the manger—Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh? If they were coming to see us today, they’d bring presents that are more age appropriate, like cold compresses, Airwick and Vaporub. Meanwhile, The Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria translate into a trinity that grandparents and great aunts everywhere will love—Nana, Pop-pop and Tanta Mariuccia.

Then there’s the classic baseball play: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.” It’s now: “Don’t Tinker with the TV remote settings, because it will take forEver to figure them out again. We only found PBS by Chance.”

We also have famous three-part mottos. The words of the French Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité still translate into Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. But for senior citizens they mean we still have some mobility, our socks match, and to keep in touch with our family and friends, we need an iPhone. The Olympic motto Citius, Altius, Fortius (Faster, Higher, Stronger) stays the same, but it now refers to our heartbeat, our blood pressure and our body odor.

We still enjoy the Sun, Moon and Stars. However, if your night vision has evolved in sync with your age, the sun often appears to be glowing around streetlights at night. You may go to bed too early to appreciate the celestial moon, but you can still catch a glimpse when a gentleman with stretched-out Sansabelts bends over. And the stars are what we’re assured every one of our friend’s grandchildren are, as we look at yet another dozen photos from their ballet recitals.

Let’s consider a holistic triad—Mind, Body and Soul. We must nurture all of these if we aspire to lead a long, full life. Some maxims to follow to make this happen are: Don’t mind anything your neighbors say about you. Don’t look at your body in the mirror unless you have on at least two layers of clothing. And if you want to cultivate your soul, forget those Chicken Soup books. Read Retirement Sparks every week.

Lastly, referring to the biological classifications Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: Seniors are told to avoid red meat, get plenty of roughage and keep hydrated with lots of water, not wine. As if that’s going to happen.

Signs It’s Time for Spring Cleaning

We’re expecting houseguests from overseas in about three weeks, which has me assessing the cleaning needs in our condo. I’ve never claimed to be a Suzy Homemaker and the current state of our home shows it. I did answer to Suzy Potts at one time, however.

That was a nickname from my parents. At least, I thought it was until sometime in my twenties. Turns out they were saying “you’re crazy” in the Italian dialect of my mother’s family. I misunderstood and they chose not to disabuse me of the idea that it was a term of endearment. I signed cards to them “Love, Suzy Potts” even after I learned the truth. But I digress. Back to house cleaning. (See, I even resist writing about it.)

I dust everything and clean the floors at least twice a year. (Don’t panic. The sinks and toilets get regular scrubbings.) After decades of dealing with this on a seasonal basis, I’ve collected some wisdom on the topic. To prove that I’m not totally without knowledge of this subject, I’m sharing it with you. You know it’s time for spring cleaning when…

You can write your name on every horizontal surface, discover a spelling error, and rewrite in the same place to correct it. That’s a lot of dust, my friends.

You realize that your cats, which are mostly white, are suddenly gray instead. Sadly, I no longer have this visual barometer of the need to clean. I’m considering wearing white socks around the house so I’ll have a similar indicator in my tool kit.

You take off your house shoes when you leave the condo so you don’t track dirt outside. (Think about that one a minute.)

The bathroom mirror has more toothpaste splatter than your face has age spots. Or maybe those are meal tidbits that got trapped in your caps and were liberated by dental floss. Apologizes if this is TMI for some of you.

You invite people to visit so you’re forced to finally clean. I probably shouldn’t admit to this. The next time I invite folks over, they’re likely to be offended at being used like that.

You don’t need your glasses to see the dust balls on the floor. I’m talking about when you’re just walking around the place, not when you’re down on your hands and knees, inspecting for areas that might need special attention.

You’re refilling your allergy pills at least once a week and the pollen season isn’t even here yet. It’s amazing the havoc dust can wreak on one’s sinuses.

You’re buying the large size bottles of saline nasal spray and you have one in every bathroom in your house. This makes the perfect companion to allergy pills, by the way.

You can see your breath when you exhale, but not because it’s so cold in your house. They’re called “dust clouds” and they’re especially visible in the sunlight that streams through your ceiling-high living room windows.

When you do your floor exercises in the morning, your body leaves an imprint like a snow angel in the dust buildup. (You shouldn’t have donated that yoga mat when you downsized.)

There you have it. Ten things that clue me in that it’s time to clean the house. When I see a confluence of four or more of them, I put the task on my iCal with an intrusive audio reminder. When the count reaches six, I stop using the “remind me again in xx minutes” feature. Of course, when guests are coming, I’m forced to face the job before they’re due to arrive. Which means I’m getting out the vacuum as soon as I finish this post, but please don’t call me Suzy Homemaker.

Random Thoughts and Potpourri Spring 2015

April is when I generally post my spring potpourri of tidbits I’ve found in various media. This year I’m adding some random thoughts, with which I’m beginning this essay.

The  April 19 New York Times had a piece titled “Reclaiming the Age-Old Art of Getting Lost.” My first thought upon seeing the title was that it would be a treatise on growing old, since getting lost is one of the things most of use get better at as we age. Author Stephanie Rosenbloom’s subtitle was “Ditching modern-day navigation apps in favor of wandering and discovery.”

As it turned out, she wrote an essay for everyone. I put a link to it on my Facebook page. It elicited many comments from friends who’ve been practicing getting lost in foreign lands for years. This made me yearn to travel again as I did in my twenties. Eurail pass, youth hostel card (OK, forget that) and a set of sheets (cancel that, too). Sigh. At least we can still take advantage of the affordable and flexible train pass. A quick look-see turned up four options priced from $67 (1 country) to $338 (28 countries).

Somewhere along the way in following this thought train (not a literal train, and hold that thought, please), I came across a scribbled quote from John Steinbeck in Travels with Charley. “I was born lost and take no pleasure in being found.” I’m saving that as a potential motto for when I reach my eighties. I may need it.

That issue of the Times provided fodder for other random thoughts. An op ed by Ross Douthat (opining about critics of Charlie Hebdo cartoonists) noted that “critics… need to realize that satire isn’t just for ‘suitable’ subjects.” I get his point, but I prefer to keep my satire relatively tame. I have few enough loyal readers as it is. I’m still struggling to get some of them to understand that my columns are, in fact, satirical and not, in satire, factual—not a train meant to be taken literally.

My last tidbit to share from the April 19 Times was about a trend in Afghani weddings. The culture has a tradition of hospitality, which means even wedding crashers must be welcomed and fed. A typical event might have 600 invited guests and 700 other folks popping in for the free banquet. One of them was quoted as saying “With a wedding every night, there is no need to go hungry.” Maybe also no incentive to get married.

A few potpourri items from Time magazine 1/26/15 have to do with numbers. Cadbury reduced the egg count in its Easter-favorite Creme Eggs pack from 6 to 5. Distraught fans were described as "basket cases." A man in Hong Kong tried to smuggle iPhones into mainland China by strapping all 94 of them to his body. No doubt one of his trips to the loo gave new meaning to “butt dialing.” In a major accident in South Dakota, a truck dumped 500 pounds of McDonald’s French fries onto the Interstate. Motorists definitely were not "lovin’ it."

From that same issue of Time, some state of the art technology. The French have developed a belt that loosens automatically after you’ve had too much to eat. Seems like that must be targeting the tourist trade, or made for export. Those skinny frogs can’t possibly have a use for it. I’d rather have one that tightens itself, making me feel full.

Here’s something from Time magazine 4/20/15. Apparently, turning those number cards on The Price Is Right is more challenging than it appears. One of their models revealed a correct price before the contestant had a chance to guess it. Needless to say, when he made his guess, the price was right. The cost to TPIR? $21,960. It was a Hyundai Sonata. The model was heard mumbling afterward, “Why couldn’t it have happened with the damn washing machine?” Why indeed.

Finally, a not completely random observation. The moniker “dames” has been creeping into the news lately. The aforementioned Time of April 20 had an article about fashion that featured older models who are more and more in demand. “Grand dames are redefining beauty with their senior chic,” trumpeted the piece. The same week, Cokie Roberts was stumping for her new book Capital Dames, about the contribution of women in Washington, D.C. during the Civil War.

This leaves me wondering: Is “dames” the new term for “babes” (especially for seniors)? Probably not. After all, two data points do not a trend make. Not even in satire.

Theme Songs for Seniors

The popular songs of our youth and our salad years continue to evoke a visceral reaction when we hear them on the radio or other media. Often they transport us back to a period or a specific event in our lives, usually one that calls up fond memories. Sadly, our current circumstances and especially our bodies aren’t quite up to the task of recreating those times in reality. Because of this, I’m rethinking some classic tunes to provide more age appropriate images.

The song that immediately comes to my mind as having new meaning is Hank Locklin’s 1960 hit: Please Help Me I’m Falling. No longer about love, this is to be taken literally. It brings up some related titles with slightly new lyrics. “Walk right in, trip right down, daddy let your pants hang down.” This 1963 Rooftop Singers hit is now a call to action: tighten your Sansabelts or get some suspenders. For women there’s the variation of Nancy Sinatra’s 1966 chart topper: These Danskos Are Made for Walkin’.

This brings me to the subject of downsizing our homes and looking for a place with a first floor master suite so there are fewer stairs to deal with. Remember The Animals 1965 smash We Gotta Get Out of This Place? You’ll know it’s time if your new favorite oldie is Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head, best known as the theme song from the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. A smaller house means fewer entrances and One Less Bell to Answer (á la the 5^th Dimension in 1970).

Another group of tunes that have strong connections to seniors are sleep-related. Sometimes it’s due to a snoring spouse—All Night Long (Lionel Ritchie 1983). Sometimes it’s just chronic insomnia. Or too much caffeine late in the day. Or not enough wine in the evening. All of which lead us to the 5^th Dimension’s I Didn’t Get To Sleep At All (but not for the reasons they had in mind in 1972). How about Simon & Garfunkel’s Sounds of Silence as a wishful-thinking lullaby?

We also have some songs that relate directly to health issues that are common among folks my age. I especially like Jay and the Americans’ 1964 hit, Come A Little Bit Closer, because I can’t hear you when you’re So Far Away (thank you Carole King). Or my favorite before-and-after pairing of adapted lyrics. “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s a cataract.” Followed after successful laser surgery with “I can see clearly now the film is gone.”

Then there’s the revisionary tune for diabetics—A Spoonful of Splenda (Makes the Medicine Go Down). Thanks to The Searchers in 1964, we also have a title for the sensation older folks often get in their toes at night: Needles and Pins.

Once we retire, we don’t get regular social updates at the office anymore. Unless everyone we care about is active on Facebook, you can be pretty certain that if we know what’s going on, it’s because, like Marvin Gaye, we Heard It Through the Grapevine.

We also have some senior anthems that need no explanation. They’ve simply taken on new importance as we’ve aged. There’s the 1964 Bob Dylan classic The Times They Are A Changin’. They are indeed, and the smart ones among us are committed to changing along with them. That’s because, to quote the Bee Gees, we know that it’s one of the best ways to keep Stayin’ Alive.

Senior Flirting Techniques

Ah, Spring! The season of bare limbs and flirtatious behavior! The older we get, the less we’re inclined to bare things. But age is no reason to stop flirting. We simply need to adjust our techniques to be age-appropriate. Here are some guidelines for seniors who still enjoy this time-honored spring ritual.

If you wear reading glasses—and who doesn’t?—slide them slowly up off the bridge of your nose and perch them on top of your head. Follow this motion with a smile and lean forward toward the object of your flirtation. You’ll need to lean in to see him or her clearly without your glasses in any case, so the move has double benefits.

Carry a package of straws at all times. When you see someone flirt-worthy, put a straw in your drink. Swirl it around and stroke the end of it sensuously. Remember the chess scene with Faye Dunaway and Steve McQueen in The Thomas Crown Affair? (If you have 6 minutes, watch the seduction on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVp9v9kCXE8.) You can use this technique with almost any drink, including prune juice. But if your choice of orange juice is high-pulp, best to try something else.

Bake some brownies in the shape of hearts and offer to share them. Break the heart in two—a matching half for each of you. Making “brannies” (bran-muffin brownies) is especially thoughtful. In the current food climate, finding a gluten-free recipe is also a wise move. My niece, Pam, can probably help with that.

If you have a First-Alert alarm button that hangs around your neck, twirl it with your index finger. You might have to practice this in front of a mirror a few times. If you accidentally push the button, you can quickly cancel the rescue service without any embarrassing explanation. Once you have it perfected, try it on your intended paramour.

Tie a colorful bandana around your neck and coyly chew on one of the ends. This has the added benefit of hiding most of your wrinkles or your “natty” (neck wattle). Make sure you have plucked all your “stiffies” (bristly goat hairs on your chin) before you do this, lest you draw extra attention to them. Men can adapt this by using a necktie. Drape it around your neck, one end looped simply over the other, like you did on the knob of your dorm room door if you had a female guest when you were in college.

If you’re a senior who now uses a walker to get around, you have yet another way of flirting with your companions. Gently rock the legs of the walker back and forth in place. If you can manage without falling over, rotate your hips in a clockwise circle (think hula hoop motion). Hum a provocative tune while you do this. Some good songs to consider: I’m In the Mood for Love, For Your Eyes Only and I Can’t Help Falling in Love. All romantic, but low impact. Be sure not to trip when you hum that last one.

Here’s a variation on the drinking straw flirtation. If you’re in a home environment, slather your feet with baby oil. Then slide one foot in and out of your slipper very slowly. When the oil on that foot has soaked in, switch to the other one. You may have to repeat this a few times to get a response from your paramour. Don’t try to re-oil your feet during the process. No one wants to see what goes on behind the curtain…

Fan yourself with a Victoria’s Secret catalog. You can open it to an appropriate page (no flannel pajamas, please) or just flash the cover his way. Do not use the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition as an alternative. Picturing someone our age in one of those skimpy bikinis will have the opposite effect from what we’re trying to achieve here. It might even provoke a heart episode.

If you’re one of the rare seniors who are tech savvy, take some provocative selfies and show them to your target. Borrow a teenaged relative’s smart phone to get some ideas of poses. Anything with your tongue, an earlobe or some cleavage (women only, please) should work. Best not to combine any two of these in one photo, however.

This list should provide a useful launch pad for your flirtation journey. What are you waiting for? Get started right now. You can thank me later.

Spread the Words

Starbucks recently introduced a campaign that they hoped would stimulate dialogue about race relations. Its baristas were instructed to write “Race Together” on their customers’ coffee cups. After just one week, the company pulled the plug on the campaign, but they claim it wasn’t because of the negative backlash on social media. Perhaps it was just taking too long to write that message neatly while the customer was twitching in line, waiting for his caffeine fix.

Whatever the reason, it got me thinking about the power of words. Each January, I along with dozens of others put out a list of banned words for the upcoming year. These are always negative words and phrases, ones that are like fingernails scratching on chalkboard. It dawned on me that this is a glass-half-empty approach. What we really need is a glass-half-full list of words that we urge others to use. In the interest of promoting positive thinking (and speaking), here are my suggestions.

My first grouping features words that support people’s efforts to become the best possible versions of themselves. Let’s talk about empowerment, encouragement and potential. I especially love the copy line my husband came up with for his store SPECTRUM-India. He’s taken the glass-half-full concept further and tells his customers they are “an overflowing glass of phenomenal potential.” He even has T-shirts with that message on them.

We should use language that helps folks tap into their potential. Don’t put up roadblocks and scatter disincentives. Instead, promote creativity, inspiration, and imagination.

In the spirit of Race Together, we should also fill our conversations about how to achieve personal goals with concepts like collaboration, togetherness, compassion and harmony. I prefer those to the commonly used teamwork. That sounds more like the mechanics of achievement and less like the relationship part of getting there.

I also love words that suggest that we should be happy with what we have achieved in life. This of course assumes that we have first made an honest effort to be the best that we can. Let’s hear it for contentment, serenity, fulfillment and abundance. (But please, not an abundance of caution! I banned that phrase for 2015.) Along those lines, let’s also be thankful for what we have and make regular use of appreciation and gratitude.

I’m attracted to terms that may sound a bit New Age to some of you, but that put me in mind of a highly positive approach to living. Holistic and organic are two of these (and I’m not thinking about food here). These words have me considering all aspects of my life, about how to keep them in harmony, and about being open to change and growth even when it might not have been on my radar.

The Chinese (or Buddhist) philosophical concept of The Tao translates to The Way. I’d like us to practice thinking and talking about ways to be. Let’s be generous and full of kindness toward others. Let’s be full of promise and wonderment for ourselves. Be proud of what we’ve accomplished and give praise to others for their achievements. Look at the glass as half full, on its way to overflowing.

Wouldn’t it be great if we all made a conscious effort to spread positive words and thoughts like these? All that good karma wafting throughout our universe! Sing along now: “What a wonderful world it would be.” (Thank you, Satchmo.)